in to the urge, the less I can resist. The burning shoulders, the salt and the sun, noticing with clarity and confidence the massive subtle differences in one incoming curl of energy from the next, watching the horizon for hours to find the next canvas. Planting my back foot, turning down the face of the wave, shifting my hips forward, feeling the rush of momentum, then drawing the front shoulder forward in a long arc to launch off the bottom and up yet again into the face before kicking out as the water thunders behind me. Paddling out once again, legs throbbing. Timeless joy, ad infinitum.

I try to last until sunset to make the most of my last foray in the water, but I end up dragging myself onto shore with an hour of light left. My back and shoulders feel like the knotted branches of an ancient, gnarled tree. I wonder blithely if I'll throw up from the day's exertion, and nearly do. Laying curled up on the beach for a moment, I wonder if it would it have been better to skip the day entirely. I won't get to surf for months, landlocked in Idaho. Was this session just pointless torture? What was I thinking? How could I possibly leave the ocean for so long? The desire hits again, harder this time. I desperately want to get back in, but another wave of nausea convinces me otherwise. I trudge up the sandbank, gulp down a liter or two of water, and change into dry clothes before pulling my phone out to check the swell forecast for the next week. Not bad. Maybe...

I put my phone away with a sigh and pull out of the parking lot to head back home, thoughts already turning towards how I can scheme and finagle my schedule to squeak in another day of waves. After all, this next one will be my last session for a long time. I can already feel the bittersweet smirk on my face.